The Boy Who Also Lived
by Setsuna529
Summary: [[We're all going to keep fighting, Harry.]] Neville Longbottom's perspective on the events that transpired leading to Voldemort's demise in HP:Deathly Hallows.


Author's Note: Much of the dialogue in this story is taken directly as it was printed in Chapter 36, _The Flaw in the Plan_, of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, along with one line from Chapter 34, _The Forest Again_. I have, however, attempted to recreate and elaborate on the actions and events that take place between the spoken words. I appreciate comments and criticism. Please enjoy.

The Boy Who Also Lived.

"Harry Potter is dead."

The high, cold voice echoed through the battle-scarred castle, leaving silence in its wake.

"He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone."

Neville Longbottom shuddered; he caught the glance of Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan, his look of defiant disbelief mirrored in their faces.

"The battle is won. You have lost half of your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you and the Boy Who Lived is finished. There must be no more war."

Neville shook his head, as though Voldemort's words were merely gnats, there to pester him – inconsequential.

"Anyone who continues to resist, man, woman or child, will be slaughtered, as will every member of their family. Come out of the castle, now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live, and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together."

A moment, an eternity, passed; no one moved. No one spoke. The entire world was frozen, suspended, uncertain. Neville closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. Then he stood up, hands clenched; his eyes shining with resolve, he strode towards the Entrance Hall.

All around him, others began to stir, as though awakened from a stupor; Neville's initiative was like a stone cast into a silent pool – grim determination rippled outward through the crowd as they fell into step beside him with the silence of a funeral procession.

Light spilled out through the castle doors, illuminating the walkway leading out. There stood Voldemort, a short distance away, flanked by dark figures in a line that stretched out into the surrounding darkness. The eyes of a great snake glittered menacingly as it lay draped about the Dark Lord's shoulders. Beside him towered Hagrid, his great hands held out, as though in supplication. Something lay cradled in his arms, lifeless: a boy, with unruly black hair, glasses askew.

"NO!"

The silent world was rent by Professor McGonagall's scream. Neville felt as though something had pierced his heart. Bodies pushed past him as he stood, rooted to the castle steps.

"No!"

An arrow, straight into his chest.

"_No!_"

And another.

"Harry! HARRY!"

The limp figure in Hagrid's arms lay still, unmoved by the pleas of his friends. Neville stared while the crowd around him erupted: shouts of anger, defiance; cries of anguish, despair – they flooded his ears and tore at his heart, leaving wounds that burned with adamant courage.

"SILENCE!" A loud bang and a furious flash of light burst from Voldemort's wand, and all noise died in their throats. "It is over! Set him down, Hagrid, at my feet, where he belongs!"

And Hagrid obliged, his unwilling arms placing the body with gentle reluctance upon the ground. When he stood back up, it was as though the weight he had released had been placed a thousandfold upon his soul; his eyes held tears of defeat.

"You see?" Voldemort said, with a flourishing gesture at the motionless boy. "Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!"

His words – they meant nothing, Neville realized, staring at his fallen friend. The words he spoke – sinister, proud, and poisonous – coursed through Neville's veins, but found no weakness, no despair to latch on to. Neville's own words echoed in his mind: _We're all going to keep fighting, Harry._ It was his oath, his mission – and Voldemort's words only served to strengthen his resolve.

"He beat you!" Ron shouted, inspiring a new surge of cheers, threats, and screams from those who still stood to oppose the Dark Lord. A second burst issued from Voldemort's wand; they choked on their words of defiance and fell silent once more.

"He was killed," said Voldemort, venomous pleasure in his voice, "while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds, killed while trying to save himself –"

The lying words stalled on Voldemort's tongue as someone hurtled towards him, wand in hand. Everyone watched, stunned, as the lone figure lunged; had he been anyone else there, witnessing his own actions, Neville might have even surprised himself.

With reflexes like a snake, Voldemort struck; light flashed, and Neville was thrown to the ground, his wand sent sailing out of his hand. He squeezed his eyes shut, not out of fear but pain, as a cold, merciless laugh pierced the air.

"And who is this?" Voldemort hissed. Neville clenched his fists and opened his eyes, staring boldly at the Dark wizard before him. "Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost?"

Neville felt the fire in his blood rage as a sickeningly familiar laugh issued forth from Voldemort's side.

"It is Neville Longbottom, my Lord!" Bellatrix Lestrange crooned with cruel delight. "The boy who has been giving the Carrows so much trouble! The son of the Aurors, remember?"

Fueled by pain and fury, Neville shakily regained his feet to face his parents' tormentors.

"Ah, yes, I remember… But you are a pure-blood, aren't you, my brave boy?" Voldemort asked.

"So what if I am?" Neville replied loudly, his voice bold with defiance.

"You show spirit, and bravery, and you come of noble stock. You will make a very valuable Death Eater. We need your kind, Neville Longbottom."

But the Dark Lord's praise was no more than vile cacophony to Neville's ears. "I'll join you when hell freezes over," he said. He raised his fist skyward; "Dumbledore's Army!" he shouted as loud as he could muster, as though in hopes to summon the very man himself. The crowd behind him shouted in vigorous support.

"Very well," Voldemort replied, his voice quiet, dangerous. "If that is your choice, Longbottom, we revert to the original plan. On your head, be it."

Neville flinched slightly as Voldemort brandished his wand; his heart pounded madly as the Dark Lord clutched at the object he had summoned, then held out before him for all to view, like some pathetic, mangy animal.

"There will be no more Sorting at Hogwarts School," Voldemort said, shaking the abject Hat emphatically. "There will be no more houses. The emblem, shield and colours of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, will suffice for everyone, won't they, Neville Longbottom?"

In spite of the situation, Neville nearly had to fight the urge to laugh – surely there was more to be concerned with than the fate of a talking hat? The humour dissipated as swiftly as it had emerged, as Voldemort leveled his wand at Neville. He couldn't move, perhaps as much due to fright as to any spell. The Hat was placed forcibly onto his head; it fell over his eyes, much as it had seven years ago, when he had been a naïve and nervous first-year, worried only about pleasing Gran and keeping tabs on his wayward toad, Trevor. And suddenly, that voice was once again whispering in his ear; not of Houses, strengths or weaknesses – it was a message:

_Once, from my depths, a sword was pulled,_

_and with it was great evil culled_

_by a hero, now, not long departed;_

_to you a task he has imparted –_

_the boy who lives is you instead,_

_with blade to cleave the serpent's head._

_Completion of this task will give_

_your friend another chance to –_

All Neville could feel was pain. Flames engulfed the Hat and spread maliciously over Neville's body, searing his skin, burning him alive. He could not move – he was wandless, alone, being consumed by fires both within and without. All the fears he had cast aside in the name of Dumbledore's Army came rushing in at him – failure, death, hopelessness. And even as the world around him shook and fell apart, another voice was whispering to him – his own voice.

_We're all going to keep fighting, Harry._

And, somehow, the curse was broken. Neville pulled the Hat from his head and flung it to the ground. His hand plunged inside it, and the sword was in his grip, and the blade was cutting through the air, as though it had known its purpose all along, had merely been waiting for the moment at hand to arrive. The sword did not hesitate as it sliced through the body of Voldemort's snake, honed by its wielder's singularity of thought: _We're all going to keep fighting, Harry._

The snake's head flew into the air, light catching in its blackened eyes as drops of blood showered down. Despite the chaos raging on around him, Neville merely stood and watched the disembodied head fall to the ground; he was dimly aware that a Shield Charm had been cast upon him, but it was not until Hagrid's desperate shouts of "HARRY – WHERE'S HARRY?" that he was brought back to reality by his oath.

Giants and centaurs and thestrals waged war throughout the grounds, forcing the fray of wizards to continue the battle within the castle walls. With a deft hand, Neville snatched his wand and the Sorting Hat off the ground, stuffing the charred and battered remnants of the latter into his pocket as he rushed towards the Entrance Hall, wand out and sword held high.

Spells, shouts, and arrows flew through the air; a battalion of house-elves joined the cause; Neville leapt over writhing bodies and shot curses and jinxes at black cloaks as he wended his way into the Great Hall. At the centre of the room was Voldemort attacking all within reach. Neville watched as Professor McGonagall launched herself at the Dark Lord, with Kingsley Shacklebolt and Professor Slughorn in close support. Neville's gaze fell upon another duel; at once his insides hardened as he tightened his grip on Gryffindor's sword. Bellatrix Lestrange was cackling maliciously as she faced the onslaught of three witches – Hermione Granger, Luna Lovegood, and Ginny Weasley. Before Neville could even take a step towards his friends, however, a flash of red shot past him – Ron Weasley was charging at a large man with matted grey hair who was holding someone up by the throat, long yellowed nails digging into the boy's neck. Ron shouted and flicked his wand; the man howled in pain and cast the boy, whom Neville recognized as Colin Creevey, limply to the floor. Pointed teeth were bared in a sneering grimace.

"You again, eh?" came the rasping growl of Fenrir Greyback. "Shall we see if your blood tastes as traitorous as your brother's?"

"Ron!" shouted Neville, as the werewolf advanced, and flung the sword towards him. Before any of them could tell what had happened, Fenrir staggered backwards, clutching at his side as scarlet blood dripped from his grimy hands. Ron stood, stunned, his hand shaking slightly as it held the gleaming sword. It clattered to the ground as all three rushed together; flashes of light burst from Ron and Neville's wands, and Fenrir was on the ground. The werewolf made his last, desperate swipes at them with bloody, clawing hands; his wound gushed upon the floor and he slumped to the ground. Ron and Neville stared at the motionless hulking mass, glanced at each other, then turned their gaze to the sword lying at their feet. Neville stooped to pick it up, then held the hilt out to his friend; Ron just shook his head.

"You keep it, Neville, you're the one who –"

His words were drowned out as all around people began to shout, and a piercing, unearthly scream filled the air. Neville looked to the center of the room, and everything happened much too fast: Bellatrix Lestrange lay on the floor in a crumpled heap; Voldemort pointed his wand at Mrs. Weasley; a Shield Charm enveloped her, out of nowhere; and Harry Potter suddenly appeared, in the middle of the Great Hall.

"Harry!" Neville cried; then silence overcame him, and everyone. The two figures circled each other, and all others in the room watched, transfixed.

The final duel.

A hand clutched Neville's shoulder, a firm and familiar grip. Neville glanced back at his grandmother, her lips pressed together sternly but her eyes flashing with vigorous pride.

"I don't want anyone else to try to help," Harry said loudly. "It's got to be like this. It's got to be me."

Voldemort hissed.

"Potter doesn't mean that. That isn't how he works, is it? Who are you going to use as a shield today, Potter?"

And Neville watched, in silence, in terror, in awe, in hope, as Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort spoke and screamed and circled each other, the former calm and controlled, the latter dissolving into madness.

And suddenly, rays of sunlight shone in through the windows, and at that moment, they cast their spells.

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

"_Expelliarmus!_"

Voldemort's wand flew high into the air; Harry caught it in his hand; the Dark Lord fell backwards to the ground.

He was dead.

It was over.

And all the fear vanished in an instant, and Neville was shouting as loud as he could, and still the sound was swallowed up by the roar of those around him. Ron and Hermione had their arms around Harry; Neville hurtled towards them, as did Ginny and Luna, and they were all real and alive, they had survived, they had kept fighting, and Harry had won.

The celebration wore on; indeed, it seemed as though there could be no reason for it to ever end. At long last, Neville found himself sitting on one of the long benches in the Great Hall, watching and listening and lost in his own thoughts.

"Neville Longbottom," a stern voice behind him said, "when will you ever learn to keep track of your things!"

Neville spun around, and his heart leapt as his eyes welled with tears. There stood Gran, a proud grin sweeping her face as she clasped the sword of Gryffindor in her hands, its bright silver gleaming in the light of the ever-rising sun.

"What a mess you left it, too," she scolded lightly as he took the sword and laid it on the table before him. "Snake blood, werewolf blood – they don't just wash off on their own!"

"Thanks, Gran," he said, and hugged her tightly. She patted him gently on the head.

"Oh, well," she said, smiling as she shook her head and gave his cheek a pinch. "You are your father's son."

She walked away and he sat down again, staring at the sword in front of him, his grandmother's words ringing proudly in his ears. A house-elf came by to bring him a plate of food, which he took gratefully.

"Well done, Neville," said Dean Thomas, sitting down beside him.

"Shoulda seen the Death Eaters' faces when you pulled _that_ one out," Seamus Finnigan concurred, nodding at the sword.

And then several others came and sat with them, praise on their lips, joy in their hearts. Neville stared at his plate of food, smiling; he looked up and saw Luna standing nearby, considering him. She approached the table and everyone quieted, looking at her expectantly. She paid them no attention; with a bright smile, she said, "I always knew you were very brave, Neville."

And at that moment, the only thing glowing brighter than Neville's heart was the sun shining in the crystal sky.

* * *

Neville Longbottom waited nervously in the reception area of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, absently fingering a lock of his still-singed hair.

It had been a week since Voldemort's downfall, and the wizarding community was still in the process of restoring itself to normalcy – every day saw more buildings being repaired, more families being reunited. St. Mungo's itself had been more or less a picture of chaos, overflowing with the injured seeking the healing touch of the understaffed. Neville himself, lacking as he was of severed appendages and poisonous boils, had been turned away every day until now. Even with all the Room Extension Charms in place and the lull in people needing medical attention, the hospital still seemed uncomfortably crowded.

"We had to relocate them in order to accommodate more patients," said a tidy-looking older witch dressed in nurse's garb. "This way," she said, gesturing for Neville to follow her.

"It's been very difficult trying to maintain a calm environment for our permanent residents, what with the influx of injuries we've been treating since You-Know-Who was vanquished," the witch explained as she led Neville through a maze of corridors. "Why, even Gilderoy – poor darling, bless him – was an absolute _nightmare_, kept trying to – oh, well, but here we are. I'll just let them know you've arrived," she said, giving Neville a pat on the arm.

Neville held back a moment, not sure what – if anything – to expect. He toyed with his shirt buttons as the nurse bustled into the small room. "Frank, Alice," she said cheerily to the occupants, "you have a visitor." The nurse beckoned Neville into the room. "I'll be waiting in the hallway until you're finished," she said quietly, shutting the door behind her as she exited the room.

Neville took a deep and steadying breath and approached the curtain that separated him from the two people he cared for most in the world – his parents.

He drew the partition back, and there they sat, smiling politely up at him, teacups steaming on the small table between them. Neville felt the familiar sinking ache in his heart at the lack of recognition in his parents' eyes. He stared down at his shoes as he felt his face flush with embarrassment – had he really thought that it would be different, now that Voldemort was gone?

Neville swallowed his foolishness and looked at his parents, forcing himself to smile.

"Hullo, M-- Alice, hullo Frank. It's me, Neville."

"Oh, hello Neville," his mother said kindly, as though she were meeting the friend of an acquaitance for the first time. His father nodded in greeting.

"Well, I –" Neville balked. What could he even say – would they even understand that anything had changed, that the people who had left them in this state were gone, gone forever?

He stuck his hand in his pocket; his fingers found an old chewing gum wrapper that had been crumpled and smoothed almost to the point of disintegration. It struck him as rather absurd. Only days ago, he had stood face to face with possibly the most feared and powerful Dark wizard of all time, and now – could he really not bear to tell his own parents that this very wizard had been defeated? Surely, if he could draw the sword of Gryffindor out of a flaming magic hat, he could speak to his mother and father without trepidation.

He ran a hand through his singed hair and breathed in deeply.

"I just wanted to tell you that – that Voldemort is dead."

His mother gasped and put a hand to her mouth. Frank placed a steady, gentle hand on Neville's arm. "That's terrible," his father said, concern in his voice. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

"No – it's not –" Neville tried to ignore the bruised, helpless feeling welling in his chest. "Look, I don't know if you can understand this, if it means anything to you, but – Voldemort, he was an extremely powerful Dark wizard, and he's – he's the reason you two are in here, he and his followers, they made you – like this. You fought them, you tried to stop them, and – they just came back, and they've been doing terrible things –" Frank's brow furrowed slightly and Alice pursed her lips in concern as they tried to follow Neville's discourse; "-but, but Harry came back, he came back, and we all fought together, against Voldemort and Bellatrix and the other Death Eaters, and – and we thought Harry was gone, and I killed the snake, I – I killed Voldemort's snake, because Harry told me to, and then he was there again, Harry – he was alive, and he fought Voldemort, and he – he won, Harry won, he beat him, he killed Voldemort. And it's all over now, everything's – everything's good again." He looked at his parents with pleading eyes, willing them to understand. "We survived – we fought them all - me, Harry, Luna, Ron, Hermione, Ginny – all of us kept fighting, and Voldemort's dead – he's gone, forever this time. And we lived, and – and –" Neville's shoulders slumped; he breathed out wearily and stared at his feet. "It's over. We won."

Chair legs scraped against the ground. Neville looked up; his father has standing, looking at him, his face unreadable. Alice, too, had gotten to her feet; her hands were clasped loosely in front of her. Neville looked from one to the other, unsure of what was about to happen.

Frank put his hands firmly on Neville's shoulders and peered at him, as though trying to discern him through a pane of distorted glass. Then he gave a soft smile and pulled Neville towards him.

"Well done, son," he whispered.

Neville felt a gentle hand touch his cheek.

"We're so proud of you, Neville," his mother told him.

The tears that fell down his cheeks were filled with a happiness that Neville had never known existed until now.

And it was enough, then, to be the boy who also lived.

* * *

_TMK 25-28.7.2007_


End file.
